


PTO

by Snapjack



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/F, F/M, M/M, Nobody is Dead, treehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snapjack/pseuds/Snapjack
Summary: By the time Steve came down, stars were starting to appear in the velvety blue, and conditions at the pool had taken a turn for the drunk.





	PTO

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "treehouse" fic, one of that happy band of indeterminately-timed fics in which everyone is alive and nothing hurts. Cautions for party-fueled hookups and really nothing else. Enjoy.

 

“A vacation,” Bruce repeated.

Tony looked around at the circle of blank faces. “See, the looks you’re looking at me with tell me that I’m right. You all need a vacation. Everyone, in this room, needs to get away for a while. Ideally, to a private island. Luckily,” he said, uncorking a bottle with his teeth and talking around the cork, “I have one of those. Actually, I have two or three of those—Friday, how many private islands do I have?”

“Stark Industries reports real estate holdings of three private islands and the majority share of a fourth, boss.”

“See?” said Tony. “Three and a quarter private islands.”

Sam shook his head very slowly at Tony. Across the room, Steve was shaking his head at Tony in exactly the same way, at identical speed. It was disconcerting.

“What, you’re looking at me like you all think I’m crazy. Speak, someone, what’s the problem here?”  
“If we leave New York unguarded,” Steve started, and Tony pointed at him.

“BAM, anticipated. Anticipated! I’ve already called the X-Men, they’re happy to take point for a few days. NEXT OBJECTION.”

“I’ve got experiments running?” Bruce ventured.

“Lucky for you, I’ve got an entire wildly smart building, plus multiple bots who’ve been trained to run every kind of sim routine imaginable,” Tony returned. “Friday, move Dummy down to the lab and get him caught up to speed on Dr. Banner’s work with, what is it, subatomic noise? Done. Hey, could someone get Coulson on the phone? Last time we tangled with Doom he was looking a little crispy around the edges.”  
Clint snorted. “You are _not_ getting Coulson to take a vacation.”

“Actually, he is,” came a voice from behind them, and the whole group swiveled to goggle at Coulson, wearing shorts and a charcoal-grey hoodie and holding a largish duffle. “Is this where we’re assembling?”

“Close your mouth,” Tony hears Nat mutter very low under her breath to Clint, and he had to tamp down on his urge to do a little dance of celebration, because he **had** them, he knew he **had** them, and it had only taken six months of secret planning to get there.

 

Of course, then he took them into Queens and it nearly all went to hell.

“Stark! Stark, no.”

“Tony, really.”

“Why??’

“What, he’s my protégée and he’s good to have in a scrap and if we don’t take him along on vacation with us, what kind of a message does that send? Happy, right up here’s fine.” Tony slid up on the seat, scooting towards the door of the ridiculously long party/prom limo he’d made Happy drive into Queens, and which he was now making Happy double-park on a fairly narrow street between two bodegas.

“An appropriate one, Tony, he’s _seventeen_ ,” said Bruce, reasonably.

“Which is why he’s bringing a chaperone,” said Tony. “Say hi to Aunt May, guys,” and opened the door. A surprisingly good-looking woman—no, a _shockingly_ good-looking woman, with sparkling brown eyes and long legs—was standing on the curb next to an embarrassed-looking teenager and a pair of suitcases. She bent down to look into the limo.

“Is this the superhero party?”

“Aunt _May_ ,” Peter mumbled under his breath.

Tony’s smile widened. “Sure is, is that your stuff?”

“Sure is. I brought wine.”

 **“Welcome,”** Thor announced.

 

 

 

At Teterboro, there was a minor panic when Stephen Strange miscalculated his approach trajectory and materialized _inside_ security, instead of just outside it. Rhodey, bitching the entire way in from the tarmac and wearing only about half of his Iron Patriot suit, was called in to mediate between the panicked TSA and a—it has to be said—kinda  _bitchy_ Stephen Strange, whose transformation into peaceful sorcerer from arrogant surgeon was still maybe only about 95% complete.

“I _had_ that,” Strange huffed as he dropped into the waiting limo. “I was going to use Carelli's Spell of Forced Mortal Astral Extraction upon him.”

“Yeah and that woulda taken how long?” said Rhodey.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” sniffed Strange.

“Yeah well,” said Tony, tapping on the window behind Happy’s head, “Principle isn’t gonna get us a departure slot, let’s board before they decide to put my plane behind Donald Trump’s.”

“ _That_ asshole.” Steve spoke up for the first time since leaving Queens, and twelve heads—Tony, Pepper, Clint, Natasha, Coulson, Rhodey, Sam, Bruce, Thor, Stephen Strange, Peter and Aunt May—all swiveled in unison to look at him. Steve was peering darkly through the rear window of the limousine like he was trying to discern which of the dozens of near-identical Embraers and Gulfstreams and Bombadiers could belong to the real estate tycoon.

Tony was the first to speak. “Sooo, _vacation_.”

 

 

 

 

“This _is_ an improvement,” Thor commented as they deboarded the plane, squinting in the blinding sunshine of the Aegean. “How come all Midgard is not like this?”

“Has Bruce not explained climate zones yet?” said Tony, coming down the stairs after the Norse god. “Seems like a kind of a basic thing—hey, look who beat us!”

Walking across the tarmac from a smaller Cessna, Scott Lang and Hope Van Dyne waved sheepishly. “Hi, guys,” said Scott. “Thanks for inviting us.”

“He’s never been on a private jet before,” Hope Van Dyne added helpfully. “He agonized the whole way over about how much you were supposed to tip the flight crew.”

“Twenty percent of the fuel costs, was that not common knowledge?” Tony asked, and when Scott turned pale, added, “Kidding, kidding. Jesus. It’s on me. Thanks for coming. Didn’t bring the squirt with you?”

“Cassie’s mom has her this weekend,” Scott said. “Also, she’s nine.”

“Fair point.”

“So, is this like a private island?” Scott asked.

“Three-quarters of one,” Tony said. “Apparently the other quarter belongs to Michael Bolton.”

“Whom I have never _once_ seen riding a horse shirtless on the beach,” Pepper said in a wounded tone as she came up behind Tony, tweaking him lightly on the earlobe before hugging Hope and Scott. “So glad you both could come. We _never_ get to go on double dates.”

“Ooh, we’re not—it’s not,” said Scott, hopelessly attempting to draw an “it’s complicated” relationship in the air before being rescued by the descent of yet another aircraft—this time, a Royal Talon Fighter of the Wakandan airforce.

“I gotta get me one of those,” Tony muttered as the sleek craft descended. “Hey Lang, think you could hotwire a Wakandan aircraft?”

“I could try,” Scott said as the gangplank opened, and then, as Shuri, Okoye, Nakia, and finally T’Challa appeared and descended the plank, “Nevermind.”

“Coward,” Tony muttered out the corner of his mustache at Scott, and then there were handshakes and kisses and introductions all round.

“All right, everybody get your stuff in the Jeeps,” Happy yelled from behind them, puffing under an armload of luggage and already reddening in the Mediterranean sun. “We got limited daylight and the roads aren’t great on this island.”

“And that would be the dad of this vacation,” Tony said. “Sorry.”

“Hey, at least it’s not me,” said Coulson.

 

 

 

 

“All right, spread out,” said Tony, dropping his sunglasses on the table just inside the door of the mansion. “There’s twenty-five bedrooms in this place and nobody’s looking, throw your shit wherever you want. Friday is on a strictly don’t ask, don’t tell policy, so…” he caught Aunt May’s climbing eyebrows, “…try not to do anything catastrophically, you know, seventeen? Other than that, mi casa is su casa, talk to Friday for anything you need, kitchen’s right through there and I’ll see you all in the pool.” His guests filtered out to the wings of the mansion, which spread like a manta ray in a graceful curve along the entire rocky length of a small inlet, a cluster of jewel-like infinity pools and soaking tubs nestled between its arms.

“Friday, belay my last and keep me in the loop about anything juicy, okay?” Tony was saying when Steve came up behind him. “ _Jesus_ , Rogers, you about gave me a coronary.”

“Sorry,” Steve said. “Stealth’s a hard habit to overcome.”

“Well, you can relax, Cap. No HYDRA around here,” said Tony. “Trust me, I’ve checked.”

“I believe you,” said Steve, slowly turning to take in the whitewashed curves and vaulted ceiling of the foyer. “This place is beautiful, Tony.”

“Thanks. It’s not Michael Bolton’s den of sin, but it’ll do,” said Tony, and Steve looked confused. “Nevermind, it’s not important. Come on, let me show you the room you want.” He lead Steve to the second floor and far out the left wing of the building until they came to the last door on the inside of the curve. Letting it swing open, he gestured for Steve to pass through first. Ducking under the low threshold, Steve sucked a breath in. “Tony…”

The room was small and decorated in modest tones of blue and grey, but it looked out over the sea. Vaulted out over the edge of the inlet, it was a bubble of glass, almost nothing but window, an unbroken panorama of pool and cliff and ocean as far as the eye could see. The bed was in the corner, nestled against the core of the building. Pushed up to the glass, a desk with paper, pens, pencils.

“Thought you might enjoy the view,” Tony said.

“Oh, Tony,” Steve said. “Yes. Thank you. This is more than thoughtful.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Tony, already backing out of the room. “It’s been here for you since you joined the team.”

He lingered, just for a moment, on the sight of Steve's back, the broad shoulders, the groove of the spine plunging down to an ass that was, frankly, more impressive than anything on display outside the window. "Oh, and the glass is treated. One-way. Totally photographer-proof, I paid a British tabloid guy to come down here and bring every lens he had." He realized he was babbling, possibly creepily, but then Steve looked over his shoulder at Tony with a grin that was 100% relief.

"Oh, thank God. I was wondering where I was going to change into my bathing suit."

Tony babbled out something, he wasn't even sure what, and fled.

 

Great. Now he was going to have that image in his head.

 

 

 

 

"I think I might wanna sleep with Rogers," he blurted out fifteen minutes later, as Pepper puttered around their room, tidying away her--and Tony's--belongings for the weekend, swatting out the wrinkles on a shirt before hanging it in the closet.

"You're just now realizing this?" she said, her voice rich with amusement. "Tony, I've watched you pine after him like a schoolgirl for years. I once pulled an entire, rooted hair from the middle of your scalp while you were looking at him, and you didn't even notice. What's changed?"

"I noticed it, I wondered where that hair had gone, I love all my hair," Tony retorted, getting up and pouring himself a drink. "I'm having a drink. Want one?"

"Gin and tonic, please," said Pepper, disappearing into the closet to pop an empty suitcase up on the shelf.

"And, in answer to your question, I don't know what's changed," said Tony. "I didn't used to take this long to make up my mind about someone. I used to know by the time they had my pants unzipped. So like, fifteen minutes? I'm slowing."

"You're growing up," Pepper said, reemerging from the closet and coming to take the glass from Tony's hand and to smooth his hair behind his ear. "And you like Steve. You don't want him to be just a conquest."

"I want him to be that, too," said Tony. "Have you seen that ass?"

"Mmm," Pepper agreed, taking a sip of her drink. "It _is_ spectacular. Have you given any thought to how you want to approach him?"

Tony grimaced. "Oh God, how does one even do that? How does one seduce a piece of Americana?"

"Well, for starters, you don't think of him like that," Pepper pointed out. "He's only twenty-seven years old. Granted, he's got an unusual amount of historical perspective, but still. He's a lot more lost than he looks. Listen to him and point him in the direction you want him to go."

"You're very wise," said Tony, and Pepper smiled into her drink. "So, what's your verdict. Do you want in on this ride?"

"Oh no," said Pepper. "I know better than to insert myself into this romance. Go, enjoy yourself. I have eyes on another prize this weekend, anyway."

"Ooooh. You telling?" said Tony, and she shook her head 'no', smiling broadly. "I don't want you gloating if I fail."

"I would never," said Tony. "You know I only want success for my best girl, right?"

"Mmm," Pepper said again, kissing him on the lips. "If that were true, you'd show up to more board meetings. I'm getting in the shower. Go see to your guests."

 

 

 

 

“Oooh. Oh, this _is_ nice.” Okoye wriggled her shoulders against a jet of the deep Jacuzzi that already contained Natasha, Hope Van Dyne, Aunt May, and Shuri. Once she was comfortable, she accepted a pour of the pinot noir that they were passing around.

“I find,” said May, returning the bottle to the edge of the tub and preemptively uncorking another to let it breathe, “That being drunk in a tub is objectively better than just about any other state on earth.”

“Hear, hear,” agreed Natasha without opening her eyes.

“There are massage settings on the jets,” Hope said, her voice wobbling slightly from the pummeling impact of said jets.

“There are massage settings on the _beds_ ,” Shuri said. “And heat and cooling settings too. I’ve never encountered that outside of Wakanda.” Okoye shot her a stifling glance, but as she was nose-deep in bubbles with a wineglass in her hand, the censorious effect was somewhat lost.

“You know,” Natasha told her, “You wouldn’t have to open the borders to everyone at once. You could open them just a little. To me, for instance.”

“I will keep that in mind,” said Shuri, grinning. “Really, you should have seen the begging I had to do to get my brother to agree to this vacation. He is such a workaholic. I had to bribe him.”

“What with?” asked May.

“Her,” said Shuri, lifting her chin slightly to indicate where Nakia, dressed in a devastating green one-piece, was lowering herself slowly into one of the heated salt pools.

“Ooh, she’s gorgeous,” May whispered, sneaking a peek as she swapped out the empty bottle for a fresh one.

“His first love,” Shuri informed her.

 _Really?_ May mouthed incredulously, and Shuri nodded. “She works on humanitarian and border issues. Six months out of the year she’s in the field, and the other six she’s working on her doctorate. We hardly ever see her. I had to bribe _her_ to come on vacation, too!”

“What did you bribe her with?” asked Hope.

Shuri grinned as she saw her brother emerging from the great glass house; scanning the pools until he saw Nakia; and, pretending to be casual, heading in her direction. “Him.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Can we all agree that at the very least, there has to be one fresh fruit or vegetable in order to constitute a salad?” Scott was saying. “Come on, guys, I feel like I’m losing my mind here.”

“Nope. Egg salad,” Stephen Strange said.

“Potato salad,” Clint pointed out.

“Macaroni salad,” Peter Parker said, then, reflexively, “Sorry.”

“Man, you gotta help me out,” Scott said as Tony came down the stairs into the pool. “I’m surrounded by geniuses and none of them can agree on what a salad is.”

“First off, you’re not surrounded by geniuses, Clint is here,” Tony said, and ducked to avoid a splash from Barton. “Second off, we’ve already decided on the definition of a salad, it’s anything served in a bowl.”

“By which definition egg drop soup is a salad, that definition is idiotic,” Stephen Strange said.

“Too bad, it’s the Avengers definition, we had this argument long before you showed up,” said Tony. “It’s literally written into the bylaws of Avenging.”

“Why would you write that into the bylaws?” asked Peter.

“Because it’s a discussion that occurs with surprising regularity,” said Tony. “Pep gets on one of her health kicks, Thor brings home a new girlfriend, not to be sexist or in any way imply that the ladies in our life like to litigate the amount of kale we eat,” he added as Pepper walked by their pool, visibly rolling her eyes but continuing on her way. “But it’s surprisingly handy to have an all-purpose definition of what constitutes salad for whenever one’s health credentials are questioned. Speaking of which,” he said, watching Happy lower himself gingerly into the hot tub containing May, among others, “Shouldn’t someone tell Happy that men with high cholesterol shouldn’t be in hot tubs?”

“That’s high blood pressure,” Stephen Strange said. “Jealous?”

“You know it,” said Tony, watching Pepper go and lower herself into the same tub. “Explain this to me, Strange. How come all the pretty women are over there and it’s a total sausage fest over here? Are we not geniuses? Is Clint rubbing off on us?”

“You _wish_ I was rubbing off on you,” Barton said with smug equanimity, floating on his back like an otter and spitting a high streamer of water in the air. They let him float, mainly because it was funny to watch his eyes widen when he realized that the yell of “Cannonball!” coming closer was Thor, and furthermore that it was far too late to get out of the way.

 

 

 

The splash, when it came, almost spattered into the deep Japanese soaking tub in which Bruce, Rhodey, Coulson, and Sam were luxuriating. Almost.

No one in the tub budged, or even fluttered an eyelid.

“Mmm,” said Bruce, a few minutes later.

“Yep,” said Sam.

Coulson popped open a beer.

 

 

 

  

By the time Steve came down, stars were starting to appear in the velvety blue, and conditions at the pool had taken a turn for the drunk. Nakia, straddling T’Challa’s shoulders and armed with a pool noodle, was trying to unseat Clint, who was straddling Thor’s shoulders and wielding a largish inflatable seahorse. Happy, stretched out on a picnic table and steaming like a beached whale, was babbling a drunken but completely line-accurate monologue from “Die Hard” while Pepper, armed with a pair of tweezers, picked broken glass out of his left foot and May held a flashlight and a bucket. Peter Parker was behind the bar—not because he was drinking, but because he was the only one still sober enough to mix drinks, and fast and coordinated enough to flip bottles behind his back. He had a polo shirt on, the collar flipped up and dabbed with wet spots from his still-soaked hair, and he was gnawing his lip fiercely as he worked. Hope Van Dyne was braiding Natasha’s hair, Stephen Strange was painting Okoye’s toenails, Scott Lang was pretending to only get cell service near Hope Van Dyne, Shuri was pretending to only get cell service next to the bar where Peter was working, and Tony was actually not getting cell service anywhere, which what the fuck, he _invented_ the StarkPhone, this should not be happening.

 

Bruce, Rhodey, Coulson, and Sam were still in the Japanese soaking tub. Not one of them had budged.

 

 

“What’d I miss?” Steve asked, coming up beside Tony, who gave the phone up as a lost cause and tossed it aside.

“Well. Cocktail over there is _definitely_ losing his virginity before the night’s out, my money’s on the crown princess of Wakanda, so lucky him, does that make him Megan Markle? I think that makes him Megan Markle, Point Break is probably going to win the battle of the pool noodles but that’s just because no one accidentally wants to piss off the God of Thunder and Lightning when they’re in the pool. Hap’s having the time of his life, Pep and Aunt May are _not_ having the time of theirs, I can’t tell _what’s_ going on over there with the whole hair-and-nail salon but it, you know, seems kinky.” Tony sniffed, then continued. “Oh and Clint’s been talking a big game all evening but hasn’t gotten the balls to go fish his longtime crush out of the pot of old man stew over there.” He indicated the Japanese soaking tub. Steve followed his gaze curiously.

“Who does Clint have a crush on?”

“Oh, are you _kidding_ me? Coulson, it’s always been Coulson, Barton’s been carrying a torch since shortly before the continents separated. It’s kind of sweet but mainly frustrating, _how_ have you not picked up on this?”

Steve looked sheepish. “I guess my sense for these things is still kinda stuck in the 30’s.”

“Oh, that’s right, I guess it wasn’t done, then, huh,” Tony said lightly, keeping his voice neutral and trying not to sound disappointed. “Well. Different time, different sets of morals.”

“Is _that_ what you think?” Steve sounded amused. “Tony, what exactly do you think is new under the sun? Men being with other men isn’t an invention, like your phone or the Interweb.”

“Internet,” Tony automatically corrected him. “We just call it Interweb to be funny.”

Steve smiled. “Like I said. There’s nothing about this that shocks me, I was just surprised, I guess, because they seemed remarkably subtle about it.”

“Subtle,” said Tony. “We _are_ talking about Clint Barton, right?”

Steve shrugged. “Back in my day, a man felt that strongly about someone else, you were bound to be able to tell.”

And Tony was drunk, Tony was definitely drunk, but he wasn’t  _so_ drunk that he couldn’t hear a door opening. “Is that so,” he said, setting his drink down with a faint clink.

Steve didn’t look over at Tony, but his grin grew just a little bit. “Yeah,” he said, looking out over the glowing pools full of drunken Avengers, the sparkling ocean beyond. “That’s so.”

Tony swallowed hard, summoning courage he felt like he’d last needed at junior prom. “Captain Rogers, would you like to get out of here with me?”

Steve’s grin didn’t budge. In fact, it got bigger as his eyes stayed steady on the horizon, until it was a mischievous moon, splitting his whole face in half. “I’d like that,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

They hit the door of Steve’s little room kissing and stripping, all elbows and knees as wet swim trunks and Iron Man-branded rash guards went flying. Steve’s mouth was wet, needy and harsh in a way Tony recognized—it mirrored a hunger in him, one he hadn’t felt for a long, long time. It had been a while since he’d wanted anyone the way he wanted—his mind still shied away from calling him “Steve”, he noticed, he was more comfortable calling him “Rogers”, or even “Cap”, and he made a mental note to ask Pepper what that was about. Probably a defense mechanism, if he had to take a guess.

“Tony?” Steve was saying, and Tony looked down and Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on Tony’s hips, looking up at him, and _oh_. Right.

“Sorry,” Tony said automatically. “Disappeared for a minute. Won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay if it does,” Steve said, and something in Tony’s chest loosened, not a heart thing exactly, but heart-adjacent. “Come here and lie down next to me. We don’t have to do anything.”

“A line if ever I heard one,” Tony said, but crawled in next to Steve, who arranged the covers over them both. “Did you used to use that with the boys in the Army?”

“Just once,” said Steve, “but it worked.”

“You’re a sneaky little shit, you know that, Rogers?”

“Ah, you’re finally figuring me out,” said Steve. “I was wondering when that would happen.”

“When what would happen.”

“You know. When the gloss would wear off, and I was just a kid from Brooklyn again. You’re starting to see it. Who I really am. How much of it is just…” Steve gestured, vaguely, at the world out there. “… just me, flying by the seat of my pants.”

“A, I tailor those pants, and B, that’s an amazing seat,” Tony said. “But seriously, Rogers, you think that’s news to me? I’m Mister Make It Up As I Go. So are all of us. You think any of us have a grand master plan? That’s bad guy territory. That’s what Doom’s got, a master plan. The rest of us are just improvisers.” Somewhere during his monologue, Tony noticed that he’d turned on his side to face Steve, and Steve on his side to face Tony. They lay together, sharing the same pillow, close. It was… nice.

Of course, then Steve kissed him, big nose nudging Tony’s out of the way, big hands moving to cup Tony’s skull, and it got way more than _nice_ really fast.

 

 

 

  

 

The next morning dawned on pool noodles on the roof.

 

Empty daiquiris on the edge of every hot tub.

 

A snoring Happy, still sprawled out on the picnic table.

 

Tony woke up next to the most gorgeous man he’d ever seen, and had a solid twenty minutes of making out before he had to slip downstairs to the suite where he and Pepper were staying. Not that he was ashamed, or anything—he just didn’t necessarily feel like explaining the finer points of their arrangement to, say, Thor. Not at eleven o’clock in the morning with a hangover.

“Hey there,” he whispered to Pepper as he closed the door quietly behind himself. “How you doing?”

“Good,” Pepper said muzzily, blinking from behind a haze of frazzled hair. “What time is it?”

“About eleven, give or take,” said Tony. “Hard to keep track when you’re making out with a twenty-seven-year old slice of Americana.” For a moment, they grinned at each other, the fondness filling every corner of the room with sunshine.

“How about you,” Tony said. “How’s your head, can I get you some Advil?”

“That would be nice,” said Pepper. “Last night—”

“I saw,” said Tony. “What a shitshow, huh? I’m really sorry Happy made such a sloppy mess of himself, I know how you were hoping for something different.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” said Pepper. “I got it.”

Tony managed to close his mouth—barely—as Aunt May padded in from the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel and wearing an identical grin to Pepper’s. He blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he finally said. “Good vacation.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the existence of this fic is 100% due to my peerless beta, JenTheSweetie, without whom I would literally never produce anything. But this fic is even more due to her than most--it was written, under pressure of deadline, for her birthday, and as such would quite literally never have made it onto the page without her. So: thanks, Sweetie. This one is for you.


End file.
